


We Meet Face to Face to Face

by cormallen



Category: Supernatural
Genre: D/s, Daddy Issues, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-23
Updated: 2010-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-06 15:06:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cormallen/pseuds/cormallen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is self-destructive. Sam deals with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Meet Face to Face to Face

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for the beta, [nu_breed](http://nu_breed.livejournal.com)!

\--- Now ---

"Ok?" Dean questions, warm mouth sliding off him with a wet noise, and Sam opens his eyes, blinks once, twice, to bring the room into clear focus.

A string of saliva connects his dick to his brother's mouth, obscene and glistening in the fading light – Sam won't turn the lamp on. Cold orange sunset filters in through the heavy curtains, briefly catching in the wall mirror and the single-serve coffee pot still full of this morning's cooled, muddy grounds.

Dean's hand is still wrapped around the base of Sam's dick, rough fingers brushing over his balls, holding him steady.

"Ok?" Dean repeats as the lights come on in the parking lot, taking over for the tired sun, the same shade of faded orange but closer, trespassing into the window, swaying, uninvited, over the right side of Dean's face. His left side is still safe in the semi-darkness, and it reminds Sam of late night infomercials, the familiar accompaniment to twenty four hour laundromats and hours spent waiting for his brother to stumble through the motel door. _Watch as I apply the cream to half of Carol's face – just evening out the color, evening out the skin tone and the lines, look at that, ooh. Aah. Doesn't that look gorgeous? Carol, let's see the other side. Eeh. Ooh. The difference is staggering, isn't it? Audience, let's give her a big hand, shall we?_

"Good," he nods finally, feeling the light slide over the left side of his face, mirroring Dean's, except for the darkly half-opened mouth, lips and tongue smoothing carefully over the teeth.

Dean chuckles suddenly, specks of orange glinting in his eyes, as if laughter, of all things, is the perfect addition to the situation. Sam grits out a short, displeased "What?" and the crinkles around his brother's eyes and mouth slink off into shadow.

"Nothing, you just look like," Dean crooks his mouth again, "you have this weird freakin' look on your face, and the light. Made me think of Two-Face."

It takes Sam a moment to make the connection; Two-Face, cartoons, comic books, _Batman_, Harvey Dent. He stares at Dean's wet, full lips, the wide, blown pupils of his eyes, dark. Deep. Wonders if the words should mean something, or if Dean is just running his mouth, as usual; his brother Dean, as ever blurting out profoundly inappropriate things at profoundly inappropriate moments.

"Sorry," Dean mumbles, lowering his face; his mouth settles back over Sam's dick, tongue swirling over the head, and then a light scrape of teeth, and another as he slides down.

Sam knows what it means then; the laughter, the off-handed comment, the carefully measured little bites. Dean is pushing him. Prodding him, working him up; it means what he's doing isn't enough. Dean wants more, needs more than just kneeling on the floor and paying obeisance to Sam's spread thighs. Dean's forehead bumps against Sam's belly as he sucks, his nose nudges into the prickle of hair below; Sam doesn't know if he has strength enough for this, even though it's not their first time. Even though he is sure he's been through things far worse and more painful in his life, through aches and wounds and fires that could have broken him, yet didn't, this? This just might.

"Sorry, 'what'," he grunts, pulling out with a slurp, and Dean leans forward, following. His bottom lip is twitching slightly, pink tongue sliding back and forth like he can't get enough. Sam reaches out a large hand, cupping the top of his brother's head, and holds him in place, firm and insistent.

Dean whimpers, actually fucking whimpers, rubs up into the touch even as he is still reaching out with his tongue, and Sam can't help but give in a little. He pushes his hips forward, just enough to let the tip of his cock dip into Dean's mouth, feel those hot, slick lips flutter against him before he quickly pulls back again.

"Sorry, 'what'," Sam repeats, sliding his cock across Dean's cheek, over his jaw, barely brushing his open mouth before moving on to the other side, painting a shimmering line of pre-come and saliva in his wake.

"Sorry, sir," Dean rasps, the words scraping inside Sam's ribcage, and he takes a long, deep breath, forces his heart back down through his throat and into his chest where it belongs.

His dick is still pressing against the warmth of Dean's cheek, right where smooth skin gives way to the light burn of stubble. The room has grown grayer, the shadows thicker; Sam can't tell the exact moment when his brother's eyelashes flutter up, but Dean's eyes are fixed on him, two hungry glints in the darkness. Dean snakes up a quick hand, fingers landing against his own cheek in deliberation, holding Sam in place as sure as Sam holds him. He feels a shift, a soft slide of skin on skin, guesses that Dean is tonguing the inside of his cheek and god, the only thing keeping him on his feet is the hot, heavy press of his brother's fingers over his cock.

Dean's goddamn fingers, rough and wind-chapped, drumming over the steering wheel and fiddling with radio knobs and wrapping around paper cups of hot, dark coffee morning after morning. The fingers that slide over pool cues and bottlenecks with the same practiced ease as they shuffle through decks of playing cards or stacks of credit cards, name by stolen name. The same fucking fingers that sharpen knives and pull triggers, and god help him if he starts thinking of all the other things those fingers have done for him as they tease over the head of his cock, the thumb smearing around the wet from the slit.

"Up," he says, almost too quiet, but just like that, Dean obeys, lets go of Sam and springs up from his knees, swift and ready. It's too dark for Sam to see more than a dim outline of his naked body, to do anything other than guess at the ever-present amulet at his throat, the freckles that trail over his neck and shoulders. The switch for the overhead light is over by the door; the bedside lamps are closer, and Sam considers them for a moment, imagines the pitiless electric glow spreading through every corner of the room, and can't bring himself to light them.

He walks to the window and throws open the curtains, instead. The streetlights will be enough, he decides, turning back to Dean, still standing where he left him, arms at his sides, back straight, knees together, feet planted firmly on the floor. Face at attention.

"Let me see you," Sam orders, carefully doling out the steely notes in his voice. "Move your legs apart. Turn."

He knows Dean will listen, will do this and anything else Sam expects of him as long as the commands keep coming, and wonders – for the hundredth, thousandth time – what he was thinking when he gave the very first one, weeks ago. And the truth is, he admits to himself as he watches Dean spread his legs, his cock thick and dark between them, that he wasn't thinking anything at all. He was just angry.

\--- Then ---

"Tell me it's water you got in that flask, Dean," Bobby says, shaking his head, and Dean shakes his head, too, drags his bitten lips into the semblance of a smile.

"Hair of the dog, man," he says cheerfully, and shields his eyes from the warm summer sun. His face is swollen, puffy, cheeks and chin blotched red.

Bobby arches an eyebrow, but doesn't say anything more on the subject, turns to Sam instead, and the map they've got spread over the table.

"I figure, we go in through here," he taps with a thick finger, "it ain't too long a walk to the main building. I'll take care of the alarm and the guard, you boys circle around back, see if you can't get the ghost to show itself." He cocks his head at Dean again and makes a clicking noise with his tongue. "You sleep at all last night?"

Dean just shrugs, taking another pull from the flask, and Bobby looks at his watch.

"Yeah, that's what I thought. We got about five hours before we need to get a move on, why don't you take a nap?"

"Nah, I'm good," Dean says, crossing his legs; Sam thinks if Dean was capable of processing more than the simplest information at the moment, he would've found something else to reply with. He bites down on his own lip, hard, watches Bobby's concerned expression waver.

"Indulge me," Bobby says finally, "and go lie down for a bit. Sam an' I'll go get what we need, don't worry."

"Fine," Dean mutters, pulling at the collar of his shirt. "Sam, get some coffee while you're out."

\--- Now ---

"Let me see you," Sam orders, and Dean obeys, sways between rectangles of light and dark on the floor, lets Sam see the narrow trail of hair leading down his belly, his hard cock, the faint lines of scars on his skin. He turns slowly, and Sam has time to brace himself for what's coming, evidence of what he's done writ bright and clear all over his brother's backside in every shade of red.

He looks at Dean's discarded clothes first, draped over the back of their one hard, uncomfortable chair, Dean's black tee shirt and dark blue flannel, his boots poking out from under the seat, white socks tucked into the tops. Dean's jeans folded neatly, knees worn almost to holes.

Sam gives a final glance to the coils of Dean's belt, pulled free from the loops, resting over the rest of Dean's stuff like a sated reptile, and stands up, crosses the distance between bed and Dean in three impatient strides.

\--- Then ---

"Cheeseburgers for breakfast, whiskey before noon; let me guess, a different girl in every bar," Bobby grouses, starting the car. "You gonna keep letting your brother do this to himself?"

It's not just girls; Sam thinks back to the pair in Illinois, both tall and tanned and long-haired. _My twin brother,_ the woman said, _we share everything. You wanna play with us?_ Her tits bouncing braless in a too-tight top, his jeans slung low on his narrow hips, and Dean grinning, wrapping his arms around them both. _Don't wait up, Sammy,_ conveyed by his brother's happy thumbs-up through the grimy window.

Bobby doesn't need to know this.

"What can I do?" Sam says instead, shrugging his shoulders. "You think he listens to me? He sold his soul for me, Bobby; I wouldn't be breathing right now if not for him. You think there's anything anyone can say to him that'll turn him around?"

Bobby sighs, pulls his cap more firmly onto his forehead.

"Your daddy could keep him in line," he says gruffly. "John'd say 'jump' and your brother wouldn't even need to ask 'how high', just did as he was told, whatever good that did him."

He sighs again, and Sam nods, but says nothing.

\--- Now ---

He strokes his hand gently down Dean's spine, lets his knuckles rest in the little dip at his waist for just a moment before sliding further down. Dean pulls in a loud, hissing breath when Sam's fingers trace over the crack of his ass, and spreads his legs apart a little further. Sam can feel the shift of muscles under the taut, hot skin, the slight tremor that passes through Dean's thighs as he reaches down with his other hand and cups Dean's ass, grinds his palm against the welts striping each cheek.

"Oh," Dean says, "god, fuck, please," and "sir" and "Sammy", and Sam leans in, blows hot, moist air over Dean's earlobe before whispering, "hold still for me now."

As he goes to his knees, he wonders if some late motel arrival can see them through the open curtains, can make out the arch of Dean's back, the way his hands curl into fists as Sam rubs his thumb over the curve of his ass.

"Look at you," he whispers as he presses the pads of his fingers into a thick, pink belt-mark, scratches at it with a short, sharp nail. "Hot little ass, striped up all red and pink, because you just couldn't do what I asked. I'm done asking now, Dean, gonna start telling you, and you're gonna do what I say, aren't you?"

Dean moans low and desperate as Sam digs in with his nails, makes new little red half-moons over the pink of the welt, and the sound crashes into him, hard and dizzying. God, if anyone did look into the room now, they would see him on the floor, his hands on Dean's bare ass, and fuck him if he didn't just tell his brother how hot it was, all covered in belt-stripes.

There's not a place he knows of where this is legal, this thing he did yesterday and the day before, this thing he is minutes from doing right fucking now. And he'd get over it soon enough if illegal was his only worry; they break laws every day, from speed limits to fraud to conspiracy, but it's so much more than that. It breaks every law, every code he's ever set for himself, King James and Revised Standard and Leviticus and "for god's sake, Dean, I just want my life to be normal."

It would fall within the realm of normal if he were doing it to Jess, coaxing her apart with his palms, pressing his tongue against the soft crease of her, circling her puckered little hole and dipping in, drawing out little gasps and whimpers from her pink, lipsticked mouth. And Dean gasps and whimpers just as torn, just as needy, but these are not the noises a man should ever hear his own brother make.

"Sammy," Dean cries out, "Sammy, Sam, Sammy."

If he stops now, he is lost.

Sam stands up, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Get on the bed, Dean," he orders. "Want you on your stomach."

\--- Then ---

"I knew it was right behind me, Sam," Dean says for the fifth time in as many minutes. "I had it handled, ok?"

"Just drive," Sam tells him, leaning his head back onto the leather of the seat. "We're done talking about this."

Dean looks over from the wheel, eyes narrowed, but for once, he doesn't argue, just puts his foot down on the gas. He doesn't say anything when Sam turns off the radio, doesn't protest when Sam gets out first and grabs nothing from the car except for their room keys, like he knows what's coming and won't do a thing to stop it.

Sam doesn't know if that makes it harder or easier. He unlaces his sneakers in calm, practiced movements, unbuttons his overshirt, washes his hands and his face in the small bathroom sink. When he comes out, bare feet making soft sounds over the wood floor, Dean is sitting on one of the beds, face fixed on something only he can see in the darkness.

He doesn't bother turning on the light, just stands over Dean, reaches down and cradles his chin in his palms, tilts his brother's face up until their stares meet.

"I'm not mad. I swear, I am not mad, Dean. It's just, god, you're better than this! I know you don't want to hear it – you never want to hear it – but you're going to listen to me right now, because if you don't, then I don't know if I can keep doing this."

He ignores the way his brother stiffens at the words, ignores the eyelashes fluttering desperately over his wide-open eyes, even though inside him, everything churns and roils.

"You need to stop treating this deal you made as your excuse to do as you please and damn the consequences. You're not going down there. Not a day ahead of schedule, not ten months from now, not fucking ever, I promise you that. But you have to promise me something, too, Dean. Promise me you'll stop hurting yourself, promise me you'll stop throwing yourself out there, promise me you'll let me do whatever it takes - what? What?"

Dean's eyes are almost all pupil, dark, unreadable, or maybe it's the lack of light in the room, Sam doesn't know, but he can see his brother's lips moving.

"I can't promise you that," Dean whispers, and Sam doesn't think, doesn't plan, just keeps staring into those huge, lost eyes and speaks in a voice that's not his own.

"Get up, boy."

"What?"

"I'm not going to repeat myself," he says, the inflection dreadfully familiar. "Do it."

One has to have a plan to have expectations; Sam has neither. He has nothing but memory at his disposal, and the steely notes of his father's voice as he watches Dean stand. He wonders if his hands should be shaking like this, if his heart should be pounding against his ribcage like it's trying to break through, and closes his eyes before speaking again.

"Take off your belt and give it to me."

He wonders idly if Dean is going to punch him in the jaw or in the nose; wonders what the blood is going to taste like on his lips, what the bruises will look like tomorrow. He hears the scuff of his brother's boots on the floorboards and braces himself for the impact, opens his eyes to meet his brother head-on.

"Sir," Dean says, offering him the strip of leather, buckle first.

\--- Now ---

Sam's done his share of reading. He's searched and he's Googled and he's borrowed from libraries across four states, books he hides between the covers of "Doctor Faustus" and the "Liber Al Vel Legit" and the "Pseudomonarchia Demonica" and has no intention of returning. Sexual imprinting; sexual fetishism. Classical (also known as Pavlovian, see index on page 387 for related materials) conditioning. "Bondage: What, Why and How"; "today, most of the sexual orientations popularly called fetishism are regarded as normal variations of human sexuality". Millions of words and thousands of theories written on the nature of human sexual response and none of it makes it an iota easier to know that Dean is happiest when he spreads himself for Sam's fingers, Sam's cock, Sam's belt. None of it makes right the lightning jolt from Sam's fingertips to his dick when Sam puts his hands on his brother's body, when he reaches for Dean across the car seat, the diner table, their lately shared beds. He presses his fingers into Dean's thigh, his wrist, his shoulder, hard enough to leave bruises, and Dean shivers, says, "Yes, Sammy," voice thick with obedience and promise.

"Tell me what you need," he asks, kneeling between Dean's splayed legs, running a hand up his ankle, teasing lightly at the back of his knee. "Ask me. Beg me."

"Need you in me," his brother says, "god, Sam, please, now, fuck, now."

The snick as he pops the cap on the lube is as deafening as any gunshot; he slicks up his fingers, pushes them inside Dean, one by one, feels Dean grind into the sheets beneath him.

"Do it," Dean chants, "do it, please, now, fuck me, fuck me, please, Sam, Sammy," moans at the withdrawal of Sam's fingers, whimpers as Sam circles his hole with the tip of his lube-shiny cock.

He pushes in with one long, smooth thrust and forces himself to hold still, let Dean adjust to him for a moment, although the wait is almost unbearable.

"Ok?" he asks, unable to stop rocking his hips just a little. They don't have a secret pass-code, a safe-word, "door" or "banana" or "hairbrush" or anything else he's picked up from the pages of "The Kinky Dictionary". All Dean needs to do is tell Sam no, tell him to stop, and he'll do it, no matter how hot, how tight, how fucking perfect his brother feels around him, no matter how much he aches with the need to push further, harder, to bury himself inside Dean and never let go.

"Ok?" he asks again, arms trembling, dreading the answer, because whatever Dean wants, he does, too, and god, if he stops now, if he fucking stops now, he is lost.

Dean turns his head, and the light from the window trails over half of his face, paints his skin with faded orange glow.

"Good," he says, meeting Sam's eyes for a brief moment before his face tilts back into full, safe shadow.


End file.
